


We're lost somewhere in outer space

by blackkat



Series: Stupid MadaTobi AUs [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Betrayal, Family, Force Ghosts, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tobirama is sort of Obi-Wan, Madara is Anakin but not quite, and Obito and Kakashi don’t quite fit the roles of Asajj Ventress and Luke Skywalker but try their best regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're lost somewhere in outer space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hiruma_Musouka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiruma_Musouka/gifts).



> So this AU is pretty much just based on Star Wars, because I know nothing about the expanded universe or anything outside the movies. It was inspired by [this](http://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/138289758615/omg-i-am-laughing-in-glee-because-not-more-than) awesome piece of Fallen Jedi!Obito fanart over on Tumblr and a post the truly fantastic Hiruma Musouka made about said piece (borrowed with permission), and I have very few regrets because clearly MadaTobi has eaten all the important parts of my brain. Oops. 
> 
> (Title from Halsey’s song _Coming Down_ , because of I am 160% terrible at naming things.)

The steady sweep of the stars sweeping past in hyperspace would normally be enough to ease Tobirama into a deep meditation, but not today. Today he stands on the tiny observation deck of the starship, arms folded into the sleeves of his robe, at watches them blur and fall away behind. His thoughts are too restless, unsettled, and while he knows he could likely relieve the agitation by meditating, he can't bring himself to do it.

His thoughts are caught, ensnared, trapped in memories of happier times. Everything fell apart so quickly that it’s easy to forget what come before. Even Hashirama urged him to set it aside, move on, but Tobirama can't.

Unlike the Jedi of old, the Jedi who follow the Order as his ancestor recreated it embrace love and emotion. Everything in moderation, because emotions can be power as well, and perhaps most of the Order would be surprised by Tobirama’s ready acceptance of that fact. He’s always held on to his composure, after all, schooled his features to a calm mask and not allowed himself to waver. Arrogance and anger are his weaknesses, but easily controlled with a strong enough will, and that at least Tobirama has in excess.

But this situation now is his responsibility, drawn directly from his actions. The correct actions, perhaps. The will of the Force, understood and accepted, and Tobirama knew even as he stepped forward to take action that there would be a price, a cost. Had recognized just what following the Force and doing his duty would mean for him personally, and then done it regardless.

He is a Jedi from a well-established family, one of many to join the Order, raised to do whatever he could to keep the balance. Always it’s been second nature, though rarely simple, to put aside his own needs and do what he must. It would perhaps be better to say he wavered this time, that he faltered, but he didn’t. The course of the future was clear, and Tobirama hardly needed to be the most Force-sensitive Jedi in the Order to know it.

So he’d gone without a word, left to face down a former friend as he fell to the Dark Side, and he can't regret that, though he does mourn what it cost him.

It’s not guilt that drives him now, because Tobirama feels none. It’s…responsibility. Love. An understanding that even if he can't make things better, he must try.  

There's a whisper in the Force around him, a murmur, and in the darkened glass Tobirama watches a shimmering blue form coalesce. The face revealed is familiar, missed, and Tobirama presses his fingers against the window as if to touch, even though he knows he can't. That much power is better saved for their destination.

“You're really going through with it,” Izuna says quietly, and he reaches out. In the reflection, the images of their hands brush, and Tobirama breathes in, looking into the face of the man who might as well have been a second brother.

It’s even harder than he thought it would be, facing the man he loved like family and was then forced to kill, but he forces himself to meet dark, sad eyes and doesn’t flinch.

“This is my responsibility,” he says. “How could I do any less?”

Izuna's smile is wry. “Such the Jedi Master, always mindful of your duty. I don’t want this to be a burden, Tobirama. I'm the one who turned to the Dark Side, who’s asking this of you.”

“You’ve joined the Force,” Tobirama counters, because for all their close friendship he and Izuna have only rarely let a conversation run its course without fitting in an argument somehow. “Even if you can hold your consciousness apart for a brief period, you are still a part of it, and I will do what I can to help.” He drops his hand, curling it into the wide sleeve of his tan robes, and says at barely more than a whisper, “I…regret your loss.”

“And I regret that I forced my best friend to be the one to put me down.” Translucent fingers brush through the air beside Tobirama’s cheek, and Izuna sighs a little. “You know, I’d feel better if you just…let yourself cry. No one would blame you, or think you weak for it.”

Tobirama hasn’t cried since he was three years old, and he’s not about to start now. He shakes his head and steps away, studying the silver curves of the wall instead of the image of his friend. “Your ego is the same as ever, Izuna. I will not weep for you.”

“No. No, I don’t suppose you would.” Izuna sounds sad, though Tobirama doesn’t turn back to see if his expression mirrors his tone. “But would you cry for him, I wonder, if you're forced to repeat your actions?”

Tobirama’s hands clench into fists, and he bows his head, his greatest fear suddenly brought into sharp-edged and unforgiving relief. “I will do my duty,” he says flatly, and hopes that will be the end of things.

“That, at least, was never in doubt,” Izuna murmurs, somewhere between wry and regretful. The Force whispers, stirring like a breath of wind through the ship, and then the other Jedi’s presence is gone, vanished into the wide-flung web that is the Living Force.

Tobirama breathes out, then in. He crosses his arms again, slipping his hands back into his sleeves, and closes his eyes. When he turns back, there's nothing to see but the blurred stars and cold glass, and little comfort to be found in the cool press of the energy around him. He’s never found the Force warm, after all, the way his brother does. Never kept it as a friend. It is a way of life, a guiding hand if only he can understand its intentions, but he does not believe there is any care in it for those who follow it. It is universal, vast, unending, without sides. There are those who use it for good, and those who use it for evil, and some days Tobirama finds it hard to understand where the line falls.

This, though—this he knows is its will. This he knows falls on his shoulders.

The door slides open with a muted hiss, and a moment later the pilot steps through. Tobirama raises his head, turning to face the Knight expectantly. In response, Kakashi bows, and says, “We’re approaching the planet, Master Tobirama. Another five minutes before we drop out of hyperspace.”

“Thank you, Knight Hatake,” Tobirama answers, inclining his head in return. “I will prepare myself.”

“Sir.” The silver-haired Jedi casts him a veiled look, then retreats to the cockpit.

Tobirama doesn’t watch him go. There's nothing to prepare, honestly, and with so little time he’ll have no chance to meditate. That’s fine; he’s gone into hostile situations in worse condition—though perhaps not any quite so dangerous as this.

In his sleeve, strapped against his arm, his lightsaber is a grim weight. He curls the fingers of his opposite hand around the cool metal, tracing his thumb over the edge of the button to ignite it, and focuses on the simple lines as he names each of the emotions crowding at his mind.

Fear.

(Understandable; he faces his death. Familiar, and easily set aside.)

Regret.

(Not for his actions, but…for his losses. For the cost of doing his duty, which he has always known he would someday pay. Acceptable. Unhappy, but able to be dismissed.)

Betrayal.

( _We are_ friends _, Izuna, please, come pack to yourself. This is not who you are. This is_ —Past. In the past. Unchangeable. Accepted as fact, and no longer something to dwell on.)

Grief.

( _You killed my brother! I_ loved _you, Tobirama!_ _Never again! Never_ —An ever-present facet of loss. Understandable, set aside.)

Loneliness.

(Also understandable in the face of the echoing emptiness of a room meant for two, in one life lived alone where two one twined together. Unable to be mended, also fact, but…survivable, with time. Dismissed.)

Love.

( _Izuna_. _Madara._ )

The last, at least, is no surprise. Tobirama does not love easily, and it’s even harder for him to let something go once he does. For all the grief between them now, he still loves Madara in a way even Hashirama thinks unwise. That’s fine, however; Tobirama has always walked the line between genius and madness, and in this he will be no different.

With a barely-audible whine of the engines the stars come into focus again, and bare seconds later the ship drops towards the green planet below. Tobirama keeps his balance easily, well used to the feeling, and reaches out through the Force. There's Darkness here, expanding greedily outward, and it aches like a festering wound to feel it. The presences are little like he remembers, like they should be, eaten away as if by acid until they're twisted parodies of what they were. Gritting his teeth, Tobirama pushes down the sting and eases back, though he knows their ship has already been spotted. There will be no element of surprise in this fight.

As soon as the ship settles, Tobirama draws his hood up and heads for the hatch. It’s just opening as he arrives, and Kakashi is waiting beside it, his own cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders but his hood down. Tobirama pauses at the edge of the ramp, studying the Knight for a moment, and then says quietly, “You don’t have to accompany me.”

Kakashi's eyes crinkle above the half-face mask he wears, grey against the tan and white of his robes. There's no humor in the expression, though. “With respect, Master Tobirama, I think you know why I do.”

That’s true. The presences are unmistakable, no matter how twisted they’ve become, and if anyone understands why Kakashi feels this way, it’s Tobirama. He bows his head, respect and acknowledgement in equal measure, and heads down the ramp. They’ve landed in a small clearing, the jungle thick around them, but there's a narrow trail leading away. Clearly they aren’t the first to use this spot, or the first to seek the Library at the trail’s end. Tobirama takes a moment to feel for traps or enemies and then steps forward. His tall boots make no noise against the spongy ground, and the path is wide enough to walk with ease.

There's reassurance to be found in the steady thrum of life around them, in the aged and ancient majesty awaiting them up ahead. The Library was a place of neutrality once; now it’s been all but forgotten, any treaties and agreements long since fallen to dust, but the feel of its energy still speaks of peace and balance in the Force.

At the end of the path, two great trees lean together in an archway. Beyond is a ruin of stone and rotted wood, at once time the entryway, a victim of weather and age. Bricks as tall and wide as the height of a man have tumbled across the path like fallen monoliths, looming in the twilight as it rapidly fades towards night, and Tobirama skirts them warily, picking each step with care. The Dark writhes up ahead, twisted with agony, and his heart aches with the knowledge that it was his blow that caused this. Duty or not, it’s his doing, though he never wanted anything less than to hurt Madara.

In the lengthening shadows, something stirs. Tobirama pauses, eyes searching, and Kakashi steps up to his side. Another shift, a ripple of movement, and a form slides from the top of one of the stones to land on the path before them. A dark robe billows around his shoulders, and a hood covers the Uchiha-black hair, but his face is clear. Kakashi draws in a sharp breath at the sight of the Fallen Jedi, clad fully in black and viciously scarred on his right side, and takes a step forward.

“Obito,” he whispers.

Eyes, one the red-and-black of the Uchiha’s signature Sharingan, the other a dully glowing violet and clearly bionic, flicker over the Knight, then slide to Tobirama. “I'm not going to let you pass, Jedi,” he growls. “This is as far as you go.”

“My business isn’t with you,” Tobirama answers, keeping his voice carefully even. “Madara is the one I'm here for.”

“And Madara is the one you’ll face.” Power hums, and Kakashi steps forward, the yellow-white of his lightsaber’s blade like lightning in the gloom. “Go, Master. Obito and I have matters to settle.”

Tobirama glances at his companion, then at the man across from them. More than anything he mourns what seems to be the Uchiha family’s curse; they are incredible Jedi, more in tune with the Force than most, with a nearly uncanny edge that comes from being so in touch with their emotions. But all too easily hate and anger and grief can drive them to the Dark Side. Tobirama has seen too many Fall, and each one lost is a tragedy for the Light. This young man in particular is a bonfire of power, even now, but where he was once an unrivaled beacon of light and hope, at this moment there's little more to him than shadow and rage.

With luck, with the Force on their side, Kakashi might be able to bring him back, but Tobirama has witnessed too many lost forever to have much hope.

“Very well. May the Force be with you,” he says, and steps aside.

With a snarl of frustration and anger, Obito surges forward, double-sided red lightsaber suddenly humming in his hand. Kakashi meets him without faltering, murmuring something too softly for Tobirama to hear. Obito growls at him, wild with the Dark Side and sliding further down with every moment, and lunges again. Three hard, quick strikes drive him backwards as Kakashi advances, unhesitating despite the emotions clear on his face.

Tobirama takes advantage of the opening to pass them and continue on. He slips into the shadowy interior of the Library itself, reaching out with the Force. Madara's energy is a tangle of Darkness emanating from below, and Tobirama heads down the stairs. His steps aren’t rushed, but neither does he linger. He can feel the Living Force resonating around him, waiting and watching, a silent reminder of why he’s here, and he breathes out reassurance that he’ll play his part.

For half an instant, he thinks he hears Izuna's voice echoing from far away, urging care, but doesn’t stop to ponder it.

Madara is in the deepest level of the Library, in what was at one time the Secure Archives. The heavy doors stand open, locks melted into slag by a lightsaber’s furious blows, and Tobirama ghosts through them without pause. Beyond the entrance, the long hall stretches out, lined with recessed niches the size of a spread hand. Within are holocrons, both Jedi and Sith—more of them than Tobirama has ever seen in one place. They line the walls from floor to ceiling, more knowledge in a glance than any ten Jedi could learn in a lifetime, all thought lost until now.

In the midst of it all stands Madara.

Tobirama stills, observing his lover. Gone is the Jedi’s tan robes, the aura of determined calm. Black instead, heavy and concealing, and he can tell without even having to extend his senses that Madara is in turmoil. It’s clear in the lines of his face, the set of his mouth, the fury that fills his eyes. He has a holocron in one hand, delicate gold and crystal, and when Tobirama says nothing he snorts softly.

“More Jedi arrogance,” he scoffs, and opens his fingers. The device tumbles from his palm and goes crashing to the white tiles, where it shatters into countless pieces. Kicking the shards away from him, he turns to sneer at Tobirama with madness in his eyes. “Well, Tobirama? Have you come to kill me? Have you come to put me down like a mad dog, the same way you did Izuna?”

“Izuna became a Sith,” Tobirama says quietly. “He was so corrupted by power that he attacked his own son and nearly killed him. With every day he fell deeper into the Dark Side. I did my duty, Madara, as a Jedi and as his friend.”

“You _slaughtered_ him!” Madara screams, and flings a hand forward. Lightning crackles from his fingertips, slickly and edged with shadows, and Tobirama throws himself to the side, rolling and coming up with his lightsaber in hand. The blue blade hums to life in time to block the next surge of Force lightning, and Tobirama sets his feet, bracing himself.

“I didn’t come here to fight you, Madara, or to kill you,” he says, pitching his voice above the crackle of electricity.

Madara laughs, bitter and mocking. “Oh, dearest Tobirama, you couldn’t if you tried,” he taunts. “Haven’t I shown you once already just how far beneath me you are?”

Unconsciously, Tobirama touches a hand to his side, where Madara wounded him a handful of months ago. It had been a vicious fight, ranging through the entirety of the Temple, and Tobirama hadn’t fully believed until the very last moments of it, when he was helpless at Madara's feet, that the Uchiha was truly serious about leaving the Temple. About leaving everything.

(About leaving _him_ , despite what he’d been forced to do. But then, Tobirama has always been something of a romantic at heart, no matter how many icy layers he buries it beneath.)

“You did,” he agrees evenly, though some small bit of unrestrained temper within him snarls at those words. It’s true; Madara is his superior in battle, and they're both aware of it. “But I never meant for this to be a confrontation, Madara. I know what you came here seeking, but you don’t need the knowledge of the ancients. The answers you want lie with me.”

Gloved hands clench into fists. “No,” Madara spits. “The secrets of defying death, resurrecting the lost—those are what I'm here for. Whatever petty facts you carry—”

“Izuna told me where to find you,” Tobirama interrupts, his patience at its end. “Look to that, if you want proof. He led me here, and requested that I help you speak with him so that he could say goodbye.”

For a long moment, silence echoes emptily around them. Then Madara breathes, “You're lying.”

“And you're a fool,” Tobirama snaps in return. He deactivates his lightsaber, slipping it away, and closes his eyes. _Risk_ , something whispers against his ear, but Tobirama ignores it, focusing on drawing the Force into him, channeling it in the precise proportions and patterns that let him reach out. He’s a Jedi Master, a member of the Council, and one of the few with the pinpoint control to manage this. One of the few with the drive, as well, as most Jedi are content to leave the dead to their rest. Tobirama is the one to push on, ignoring boundaries and rules when there are things to be tested, to learn.

At last, though, a technique of his creation will be good for something beyond bringing death.

 _Izuna_ , he thinks, remembering the warmth of a hand on his arm. Remembering a swift-sly smile and a talent for mind tricks and a penchant for more tumbling and leaping than was strictly necessary in his fights. Remembering hard-won wisdom and calm humor and a bit of brightness is the most hopeless situations. Remembering gentleness with his family and son, camaraderie with the other Knights. He reaches with all of that, with his regret for the man’s fall and his grief and all his friendship, his unapologetic lack of regret for his actions, because he truly did what he had to.

Like hands sliding into his, energy coalesces. Blue light shimmers, brightening, and Izuna steps out of nothingness, once more clad in Jedi robes rather than the crimson he died in. his face is peaceful instead of twisted, warm when he smiles at his brother.

“Madara,” he says, and reaches out. “Madara, can you hear me?”

Even across the distance separating them, Tobirama can see that Madara has gone chalk-white, eyes wide. “No,” he whispers. “It’s a trick.”

“You know it’s not,” Izuna chides, moving forward until there's less than a yard between them. “Madara, I know you're doing this for me, but please, don’t. Tobirama did the right thing. I wouldn’t listen, couldn’t, and there was no other choice. But the Dark can't hold me anymore.”

“You never learned those techniques!” Madara insists. “You shouldn’t be able to come back this way if you didn’t know them! There's no—” He stops abruptly, eyes flickering to Tobirama, and slowly closes his mouth.

“He’s acting as a channel, helping me find my way back,” Izuna confirms. “But I can't stay long, or it will kill him. I just wanted to say goodbye. And…would you tell Obito that I'm sorry? I hurt him, scarred him, and I never meant to.”

Madara's breath catches in his throat, and he reaches desperately for his little brother. “I don’t care!” he insists, and Tobirama ruthlessly crushes the lance of pain that tears at him upon hearing it. “Just a little longer and I’ll find a way to keep you here, I promise.”

“That’s not true,” Izuna murmurs, reaching out with one ghostly hand. He touches Madara's cheek, and the older man’s eyes go wide at the sensation. With a choked sound, he throws himself forward, wrapping Izuna in his arms. Izuna chuckles, squeezing him in return, and repeats, “That’s not true, Madara, and you know that, too. I can feel it—there's still love in you. The hate hasn’t devoured it yet. Cling to that and don’t let go. I'm fine where I am, but this—this isn’t who you are, and you know it, or you wouldn’t regret dragging my son down with you as well. Go back to the Order. Go back to the Light. All you’ve ever wanted to be is a Jedi, and all _I've_ ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“Izuna, you're—!”

“Dead.” Izuna smiles a little. “It’s not so bad, really. The Force is—everything. Everywhere. I’ll always be near you, and whenever you eventually cross over, I’ll be waiting. Now start listening to your heart again, instead of your temper. My time here is up. And don’t blame Tobirama for his actions. I don’t, and I think I've got the final say in this matter.”

A shimmer of light, a wash of blue, and Tobirama collapses to his knees as the power vanishes. His skull throbs mercilessly, overwhelming everything else for a moment, and he grits his teeth against the white-hot pain, pressing his palms against the sides of his head. A faint noise escapes from between his clenched teeth before he can stop it, but he swallows the next one that tries to emerge. Every limb feels shaky and weak; he hates it, the aftermath, but knows not to fight it even though it leaves him defenseless.

Unexpected, a little tentative, a hand settles on his shoulder. Tobirama flinches on instinct, but quickly squashes that reaction and flicks a hand in vague apology.

“Are you dying?” Madara asks, whisper-soft, and Tobirama appreciates the care even though it still makes his skull ring.

He breathes in deep through his nose, unclenches his jaw as best he can, and manages to hiss, “Headache—Force backlash.”

Madara makes a sound of understanding, and even if he’s not pulling Tobirama into his arms like he would have before, at least he isn’t moving away. A long moment, a breath, and he says softly, “He asked you to do that?”

Tobirama nods, not quite daring to try speaking again. He doesn’t dare reach for the Force, either, though he wants to. What does Madara's presence feel like right now? Is he still seething in a miasma of the Dark, or has the Light started to bleed back through, like dark-painted glass cracking and falling away a piece at a time?

A sigh, and then a hand hooks around the nape of his neck, dragging him forward. Tobirama moves with it, in no fit state to resist anything, and is almost surprised when Madara doesn’t simply snap his neck. Instead, the Uchiha lets him press his forehead against the center of his chest, and fingers smooth through his hair.

“It really would be so easy to blame you,” Madara says, almost wistful beneath the pain in his voice. His free hand finds Tobirama’s side, pressing against the wide scar he left. “You had to know there was every chance I would kill you the moment I set eyes on you.”

Tobirama grunts, decides that he can manage words now, and attempts, “I had to try. My responsibility. My actions that made you Fall.”

( _I'm the one who loves you_ , he doesn’t say.)

Madara doesn’t protest, but Tobirama never expected him to. They both have leagues to go before they're anything close to fine, but…maybe. Someday in the future, perhaps.

Gritting his teeth, Tobirama forces his eyes open, ignores the way the soft light of the Archives makes him dizzy with agony, and pushes away from Madara and to his feet. The world only spins a little, so he straightens and starts walking towards the door, trying not to think about the thousands of stairs ahead of him. Behind him, Madara rises as well, looking wary and faintly uncertain.

“What now?” he asks.

“Now?” Tobirama snorts, dismissing how his head vibrates afterwards. “Now I return to the Temple and sleep until I can touch the Force without collapsing. You can join me if you wish, or stay here.”

( _I don’t care_ , he doesn’t say, because it would be entirely untrue.)

By the time he’s made it to the first landing, his footsteps have gained and echo. Tobirama doesn’t smile, because nothing is sure enough for that, but…there's hope. Just a trace, but enough.

When he stumbles for the first time, legs giving way beneath him somewhere near the middle of the stairs, a black-clad arm wraps around his waist and anchors him until he can stand on his own. Neither of them mention the way saber-callused fingers brush across the wide white scar hidden by Tobirama’s robes.

Night has fallen over the jungle, but the six moons in various stages of fullness hang low and bright in the sky, and by their light, Tobirama can make out Kakashi's form, seated against one of the fallen stones. Obito is slumped against his side, one hand clutching the sleeve of his pale robe. There are faint tear-tracks on the Uchiha’s cheeks, a look of exhaustion on his sleeping face, and Tobirama guesses that there was no convenient ghost to guide Obito back to the Light, to help him reconcile his father’s Fall, his attack on Obito, and his subsequent death. Kakashi managed it instead, drove away whatever demons first pulled him down, and helped Obito save himself.

The Uchihas give in to rage and grief and pain so easily, but they're strong. The path back to the Light will be long and filled with pitfalls, but Tobirama thinks they’ll be the stronger for faltering. Those bearing curses are almost always the heroes of their tales, after all.

Upon seeing Tobirama emerging from the Library, Kakashi nods, then carefully shifts Obito enough that he can stand. After a moment of apparent inner debate, he doesn’t bother waking the other man, simply drags him up into his arms. The Uchiha doesn’t stir, and with one glance back to make certain Tobirama can walk by himself, Kakashi starts back towards the ship.

Tobirama pauses at the tree line, glancing back. Madara is a few meters behind him, but he’s stopped walking. His eyes are on the moons, on the handful of stars visible beyond the light, and Tobirama doesn’t interrupt whatever contemplations he’s entertaining. He turns around and keeps walking, heading straight up the cruiser’s ramp when he reaches it. Obito has been laid out in one of the small rooms, so Tobirama takes the other, collapsing onto the bunk without so much as bothering to remove his clothes. Trusting Kakashi to get them back to the Temple safely, he waves the light off and closes his eyes, giving in to the painless darkness of unconsciousness.

Very, very far away, just as he slips completely under, he thinks he sees a silhouette in the doorway of his room, achingly familiar.

Thinks he feels gentle hands tugging his boots off and a quiet voice murmuring, “Thank you,” as fingers brush across his cheek.


End file.
